The Devil's Apple
by Amorai
Summary: Christine's devastation at Raoul's death sends her spiraling downward as his father arrives on the scene. A twisted soul leads her to a deadly world of passion, lust, and pain. Her rough scratches on the wall become the countdown to her death...
1. The End

Chapter One: The End

Christine bit her lip as she heard the familiar hacking cough echo down the hallway. Day after day, night after night, she had piously, earnestly prayed that the Lord would take away the tuberculosis invading her husband's body. For three endlessly long months she had prayed. For three long months the Lord had seemingly ignored her. And despite her deep devotion, she had almost lost faith in God, had sensed His presence slowly fading away from her side. But as another fit of coughing reached her ears, Christine flew light-footed up the ornate staircase, the sound driving all other thoughts out of her mind as she walked swiftly to the bedroom Raoul used.

She pushed the heavy wooden door open and bit back her gasp. Although she should have been used to Raoul's physical state by now, every time she laid eyes on him she still felt terrified. The luster in his warm brown eyes was fading and his body, once fit and healthy, was emaciated. His hair was unkempt, his skin pale and clammy. His falling from grace suddenly drove a unwanted shard of memory into Christine's mind as she beheld her husband: Erik—an Angel of Music and an Angel of Death, forever doomed and fallen into the depths of Hell like so many do…

_Stop those thoughts,_ Christine reprimanded herself, her mind's voice much sharper than usual as she closed the door and approached him.

Raoul smiled wanly at her in greeting, but the gentle expression slid from his face as he started coughing again. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth as he hacked his way through the fit, and Christine couldn't suppress the horrified shudder that raced down her spine when he lowered the handkerchief, now spotted with scarlet.

"Here," she said softly, swallowing her fear, the sound and sight of her husband shoving away any sad memories of Erik. "I brought that sleeping medicine."

"Thank you, Little Lotte," Raoul said in a quiet voice marred with the hoarseness that came with so much coughing. His endearing nickname for her, used in a time of great personal suffering, made tears come to her eyes. She willed them not to spill out as she sat down carefully and poured the thick syrup out of the bottle into the waiting spoon, which she carefully lifted to Raoul's mouth.

Raoul didn't meet her eyes as he took the syrup into his mouth. Although Christine loved his constant gentleness towards her, she knew he hated being reduced to a child, having to have another clothe and feed him. She knew he thought of it as faintly pathetic, especially because he was a fiercely independent man. Being brought down to this level embarrassed him.

Christine lowered her eyes and spoke to the coverlet on the bed. "It's getting late. I'll be going along to bed. You should try to sleep as well."

Raoul nodded. "Thank you."

Christine closed the medicine bottle and rose from the bedside chair, taking the spoon with her. She was halfway to the door when his soft voice called to her. "Christine…"

She turned around. His eyes touched and caressed her, but their expression was strangely unreadable as he spoke. "I love you."

Christine smiled slightly. "I know."

And with that, she left.

Christine hurried down the long, shadowy hallway, lit periodically by flickering gas lamps in clear globes of spun glass. The doctor had ordered Christine to sleep in a separate room, as tuberculosis was extremely contagious. Christine had obliged without question, but disliked the time away from her husband.

_Husband_. The word stabbed her like a dagger plunged into her heart. Unwanted images suddenly flashed through her mind—an underground chamber with candles casting reflections on the water, a noose, a neck…Erik and his ultimatum…

With a stifled cry, Christine forced the thoughts aside in her mind. The past was the past and no matter how much one wished it, it couldn't change. Brooding over lost memories accomplished nothing.

Her mind was able to accept this for only several seconds before exploding anew with images of Erik.

She hated nighttime. She knew Erik belonged to the night, that it was in his soul, and that alone was enough to make her pine for him at a level beyond agony. And with the darkness came the dreams. Sometimes they were nightmares where Erik killed Raoul in jealousy, or killed her in rage, or killed himself. Sometimes it was all three. Other times, Raoul was ambushed by an invisible assailant, only to die before Christine's frozen body. If they weren't nightmares, they were beautiful dreams where Erik and she married, where Erik crafted beautiful things for her and where she was deeply in love with him. In those dreams she sang without shame and never felt any guilt for leaving Raoul behind, because Raoul didn't exist. In those dreams Christine knew the velvet touch of a hand, a voice in the shadows, and knew that it was Erik, her one and only. Those dreams were capable of crippling Christine to the point where she stayed in her room for days at a time. They were so beautiful, they were so beautiful…the possibilities ensnared her.

She could have cursed God for creating the human need for sleep. As each day died and her activities as newfound aristocrat diminished, all the unbidden thoughts of the Angel of Music screamed aloud in her head until she wanted to tear out her perpetually-curly hair by the roots. Even though he was no longer in her life, and had probably died of a broken heart, the power Erik still held over her was staggering. He ruled her mind at nighttime.

Christine sighed deeply and raked her fingers through her hair as she crawled into bed. She could do nothing except reassure herself night after night that her thoughts of the Opera Ghost would eventually disappear. Naturally, they never did. She only had to hear a strain of music to hear his voice, or close her eyes to see his hand stretched out to her, his eyes burning…waiting.

* * *

Christine slept badly that night. She dreamed that she was back on the stage of the Opera Populaire during the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant. _The audience murmured faintly in the background as Erik prowled in a circle around her in his Don Juan costume. Through the mask, his forest-green eyes betrayed no emotions, never wavering as he paced around Christine. She sensed the mounting tension in his body, and she shivered.

"Are you ready?"

The voice was quiet, yet tingling with a thousand emotions. Fear. Concern. Trepidation. The diamond edges in his voice were blunted, subdued with an unidentifiable emotion that made Erik seem even more unearthly as he continued his pacing around her.

Goosebumps pulsed up Christine's arms. "For what?"

"He's coming. Be afraid." His velvet voice had an overwhelming patience to it that almost made Christine yell with frustration.

"Who are you talking about, Erik? Who? _Who?_"

Erik's eyes darkened as he spoke again, never slowing his pace as he continued walking in a circle around her. His voice took on an ethereal tone as he gave his answer in the form of a riddle:

_The source of your heart  
But an ally he is not  
Cousin of God, brother of the Devil  
Hope is but mortal—  
He'll lead you into Hell._

On the last word, he pointed at the floor between them, and Christine followed his outstretched finger to the fire pit in front of her. The simmering strips of orange and yellow fabric suddenly changed, transforming into fiery streamers that blinded and burned. Christine let out a scream as the flames started racing up her dress, but Erik only looked back stonily as she burned in the raging inferno.

"Wake up, Mademoiselle, wake up!"

Christine opened her eyes to the sight of her maid, Anna, kneeling by her bedside and the sound of someone screaming in the distance. Dazed, she blinked a few times, trying to remember what happened and what didn't.

"Mademoiselle! If I may be so bold, do take a breath!" Anna urged, her eyes as wide as saucers as she put a cool hand to Christine's forehead.

The screaming was coming from Christine's mouth. As soon as she realized it, the sound cut off in her throat like a strangled goose.

"Another nightmare, miss?" Anna asked, searching Christine's eyes. Christine nodded, and Anna knew too much of her mistress's nighttime dreamings to react perceptibly.

"Now if you please, mademoiselle, dress and come with me. Your presence is required in your husband's room at once."

_It can only be good news_, Christine assured herself as she rolled out of bed reluctantly and threw on her dressing gown, leaving her hair in the rumpled mess that it was._ It can only be good news._

As was her habit, Christine threw a glance out the large windows that lined the long corridor as she and Anna made their way down the hall to Raoul's room. The morning was gloomy and quite dark, with stormy clouds rolling steadily over the sky. It made her nervous, in a way she couldn't easily explain.

"Would…" Christine ventured as she and Anna neared Raoul's room. "Would it be too optimistic for me to guess that my husband is now showing improvement? Is he better?"

"I really cannot say, mademoiselle," Anna said carefully as they approached the door to Raoul's room. "There is no right answer for your question at the moment."

And she pushed open Raoul's door.

Doctor Leveque was there, and this was not unexpected. The grey-bearded, bespectacled man had visited Raoul regularly over the past several weeks, sometimes every day. What was unexpected was the unusually downcast expression on his face.

Christine flicked a glance at the sleeping Raoul before looking at Doctor Gillene. "What happened, Doctor?"

Doctor Leveque sighed deeply and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were infinitely sadder. "Your husband died last night."

Christine stopped breathing as the air around her seemed to grow heavier and suffocate her. She continued staring at Doctor Leveque's face as his words sank in, one at a time.

Raoul wasn't sleeping at all. He was lying so still because there was no air left in his lungs. No air would ever fill them again, those lungs so mottled and damaged. Never again would he move, to touch her cheek tenderly or simply go about his business. In a rush, Christine suddenly appreciated a hundredfold every gesture he ever made, knowing they were numbered and that eventually there would be none left.

"You see, mademoiselle," Anna said in a strange voice. "He really is better now."

What little breath that remained in Christine's lungs whooshed out of her as the fingertips of her right hand found the gold band studded with diamonds around her left ring finger.

"Leave me," she said in a low voice.

"Mademoiselle Daae, I truly—" Doctor Leveque began.

"Please, there is time for all that later," Christine replied, trying to keep her voice even and unemotional. "Anna, Doctor Leveque…please leave."

Anna respectfully avoided her gaze as she gathered up her skirts and departed. Doctor Leveque made to go, but lingered in the doorway.

"His father will be coming this afternoon at three-thirty," he said quietly.

Christine nodded, not turning around to look at him, and the doctor left, closing the door behind him.

"Raoul…" The sound broke from Christine's lips like a dribble of water from a dam about to burst. She ran to his side and sat down on the edge of the bed, gazing at him silently. He was no longer the vital young man who had wooed her at the Opera Populaire, but his now-worn face looked…more peaceful. Christine hesitated, then laid a hand on his cheek. His skin was almost transparent and felt very cold. The staggering enormity of it crashed down upon her at that instant.

"Raoul…please…" Burning tears stabbed the back of her eyes as she shook his shoulder. He didn't move. "Raoul…oh, please…please…oh please, this _can't_ be happening! No!"

She put a hand over her mouth as she collapsed in on herself and started sobbing. She felt the gold ring touching her lips and before she could think twice, she stood up, strode around Raoul's bed to the large window and hefted it open. The sky had grown even darker, and the grey-black clouds hovered ominously over Paris. Before she could change her mind, she ripped the ring off her finger and threw it out the window as hard as she could, scorching tears cascading silently down her face. The ring hit the ground as the first drops of rain began to fall.


	2. The Spiral

**Author's blurb: This next chapter contains strong sexual sexual situations that may disturb even seasoned M-fanfic readers. Proceed at your own discretion!**

Chapter Two: The Spiral

The rain lashed the windows mercilessly and thunder screamed and groaned all around the manor, but Christine, imprisoned inside her own mind, paid no heed to the turbulent storm.

She spent the rest of the morning huddled in her bed, a tornado of incoherent thoughts crashing through her head. She could only stay still as the same cloud of frantic, half-formed possibilities travelled in a large circle, only to have them ambush her as they reached her once more.

Raoul was dead. What would happen to her, then? She knew women could not own property except under very special circumstances, and she was not sure what those were. Who would own the house, then? Would the government take it back? Being a widow (her throat burned at the thought), could she keep it? For how long? Would she be forced to move out? If so, where could she go? As much as she missed Mother Giry and Meg, it was not like she could simply step back inside the Opera Populaire, not with newspapers circling around that, no doubt, already had her name and the news of her husband's demise plastered all over the front page.

Her mind swerved towards Erik. Before twenty-four hours were up, forty-eight at the most, he would learn what happened to her. If he was still alive, that is. Christine had absolutely no idea whether or not he still lived—her last memory was the sight of him staring with broken despair after her and Raoul as the opera house above continued to burn. If he was still alive, he would not see any reason not to pursue her again. She had no doubt that he would find her, one way or another.

Christine sniffled as she considered her options. Raoul was gone, and out of respect for the deceased, a good Christian woman would not marry again for the rest of her life. She would be able to do that, if it weren't for Erik. If Erik had indeed survived the fire and decided to court her again, she didn't know how in heaven she could resist him in order to stay true to her husband's memory. Erik was like a siren to her; his music had consumed her, permeated her soul until she felt like she was soaring forevermore in paradise. He had intimately touched her heart in a way that Raoul never had. And his aura of velvety darkness tinged with passion and despair had intoxicated her until she couldn't tell what was hers and what was his anymore. Even mere memories of him held her captive to his influence.

If he was the lion…she was the lamb. Naïve and completely defenseless.

Christine knew she couldn't be sure that he had truly changed for the better, as she liked to think. He had, of course, wept passionately with her and let her go with Raoul, but there was no doubt that it had agonized him more than words could ever describe. Could he, in utter despair and unable to cope, have reverted back to killing innocent people? Shutting the doors of their life permanently and irreversibly, driven mad by the pain of unrequited love?

He would want to court her even more, and it would be an extremely dangerous game. There would be no façade of dark seduction hiding the obsession within, like there had been the first time he had taken her to his lair. If he was a despairing madman, how could Christine possibly take him into her life? On the other hand, how could she ever turn him away? For nine years she had lived only to hear his divine voice, to be taught by his being. Human or not, she had given all her soul to him during those nightly lessons. She couldn't possibly shut him out like would kill her and everyone she cared for out of pure spite, Christine had no doubt of it.

But most of her thoughts mourned Raoul instead. Raoul, the innocently enamored boy who had boldly fetched her scarf out of the sea the first time they crossed paths…who had sat quietly with her when her father told stories…who had gently embraced her so many times at the Opera Populaire, comforting her from life's ills—he would never walk into a room again smiling broadly, his impudently long hair swishing along in his wake. Never again would he surprise her with a lush bouquet of roses, a light of joy shining in his eyes…he would never talk to her, laugh with her, read with her, or kiss her tenderly again.

She had known Raoul for almost all her life. Now he was dead.

Christine hugged her knees closer to her chest, trying to hold in the dilemmas and unendurable pain surrounding her. But another memory of Raoul flashed through her mind, and she broke. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed openly.

* * *

In the midst of her anguish her mind had immersed itself in a dreamlike state, and she had no idea of the time until Anna knocked quietly on the door.

"Come in," Christine in a quivering voice, sitting up and swiftly wiping away her tears.

"The Comte de Chagny is here, mademoiselle," Anna said softly, poking her head in. "Would you like me to assist you in dressing?"

Christine thought quickly. "That would not be necessary. Thank you, Anna."

With a deep inward sigh, she rolled slowly out of bed as the door closed again.

Despite standard protocol to meet one's guests quickly as not to keep them waiting, Christine dressed slowly, unable to shake her mind out of the stupor it was submerged in. She considered pinning up her hair, but when her mind failed to work properly and remember how to do it, decided to put up only the top half of her hair, leaving the rest down.

It was ten minutes later before she deemed herself somewhat presentable to meet the Comte de Chagny. Biting her lip at her black-swathed image of mourning in the mirror, she left the room.

She descended the stairs, holding her breath as the Comte came into her field of vision, his back to her. She knew that the Comte did not approve of her at all. Raoul told her that when he had announced his engagement to his parents, his mother had been surprised, but encouraging. His father's reaction, on the other hand, was a different story. Raoul and his father had argued for over three hours that night over Raoul's choice to marry a common peasant girl from Sweden. The Comte had threatened to permanently disown Raoul from the family and erase him from his will if he married Christine. Raoul had reassured Christine that for her sake, he didn't mind in the least…but as it turned out, his father had never carried through with his threat, and Raoul had kept his familial ties and his title. But the icy glower the Comte had given Christine during the wedding was enough to burn a gaping hole through her body, and he had not come to the feast after the ceremony. Raoul's mother had remained steadfastly accepting of Raoul's proposal to Christine, but had died suddenly two weeks after the wedding from an uncommonly high fever. This was the first time that they had met each other since then, and Christine knew enough about the Comte to know that the death of his wife would make the Comte's nerves even touchier than his usual unwelcoming demeanor. She steeled herself for an unpleasant visit as she stepped off the staircase.

The Comte de Chagny turned around slowly and faced her, his dark brown, almost black eyes regarding her coldly. His unfriendly stare pierced Christine through, and she felt a cold lance of fear stab her middle as she took in his appearance. He had not yet succumbed to the decay of middle age: his skin was still supple, his midnight-black hair without grey. His face was lightly lined from his decades of life, and his height, the condescending way he carried himself, suggested an air of subtle superiority. The spotless dark suit he was wearing would have seemed common and ordinary attire for any aristocrat, but his jacket and shirt were open slightly at the top, sending chills up and down Christine's lower back. The fact that the Comte's hair was slightly damp from the rain outside didn't help matters. As far as appearances were concerned, Raoul's father was good-looking for his age, but the hard set of his coal-black eyes and the anger and contempt that seeped into his face whenever he laid eyes on Christine chased away any notions of masculine beauty. And it was this face that presented itself to Christine now as he spoke.

"I really do not appreciate in the least being in the former house of my son, or in the presence of his wife," he stated frankly, his eyes flashing remorselessly at her.

_Why are you here in the first place, then?_ Christine thought irritably. Despite her vow not to feel subordinated by this man, she balked. "I thank you for coming, monsieur. But may I remind you that I suffer also," she murmured in a low voice.

"Indeed, and that is painfully obvious. The red of your eyes from your apparent crying fit can be seen from a hundred meters away," the Comte said dispassionately, not seeming to care about Christine's instinctive reaction of pure indignation. "That is the biggest problem of all women—they are _so_ sensitive, they must express their emotions so openly that they consistently cause strife in their marriage and shame themselves in public. It's the disgrace of humanity—the existence of women. The only thing they're good for," the Comte said, leering at her, "is producing heirs."

Christine bit the inner part of her lower lip, the sharp pain driving back the outraged retort she was sorely tempted to make, and put her hand to her chest in a primitive gesture of self-protection. The Comte's eyes darted to her hand, then to her breasts. Christine stiffened. There was a strange glint in his eyes, one that she did not trust at all.

"If I may ask, what is your purpose in coming here?" she asked tersely.

"To discuss the ownership of this manor," he said, taking a step closer to her. Christine almost took a step backward, but resisted. "It's a little complicated, but the odds always win out just the way I like it," he continued, his upper lip curling.

A tiny lance of fear flew straight into Christine's heart. "So who's going to own the house?"

He smirked, smelling victory. "I will."

She gasped with surprise, and his sneer widened. "You see, normally any living spouses of the deceased can claim ownership. However, if the husband dies, through the pleasantly complicated laws regarding property ownership after a man's death, his parents, if living can claim ownership if they desire. And if they do that…" The glint in his eyes became more obvious. "There is absolutely nothing the wife of the deceased can do."

Christine let this sink in for a moment. "Then what's going to happen to me?"

A spark of annoyance flared up in the Comte's eyes for an instant, but before Christine could verify that she had seen it, it was gone. "You continue living here. But I preside over you, and will also move in. Permanently," he added, his eyes raking over her diminutive figure.

She flinched from his unblinking predatory gaze. The primal hunger in his eyes was easy to see, and it frightened her. But with the fear came a scalding feminine rage. _If he is implying that he will bed me just because someone we both shared is dead, he'd better think again! _she thought. The words rolled and boiled inside her mind. She was _not_ going to spend the rest of her life cowering under this—_Comte_—who exuded pure danger and reminded her faintly of an incubus.

And she was still sure that he despised her beyond reason for being a simple Swedish peasant girl who somehow ended up winning the heart of a purebred aristocrat like Raoul. As if she even had a choice to be a peasant girl in the first place! She would gain nothing by staying here under his stifling authority, his piercing gaze. Even if he left her alone, she would be a slave in her own mind.

"I do not think I would enjoy that much, monsieur," Christine commented. Her mind's voice gasped and reprimanded her for openly defying him, but she kept her eyes on his steadily.

"Really?" the Comte said, his narrowed eyes icing over once more. "Unfortunately…" he approached her with the gait of a lion stalking its prey, and Christine instinctively backed away from him. She felt the wall touch her back, and suppressed the whisper of fear flitting through her heart as she looked up at the Comte, who stood over her. "I don't think you have much of a choice." He grabbed her wrists and slammed them to the wall above her head, making Christine's breath hitch in terror. "Not after what I've done to you." His voice almost seemed to slither down the length of Christine's body, in and out of her clothes all the way down to her feet.

_No_, Christine's mind whispered as she started to squirm against the Comte's unbreakable grip on her wrists.

"Monsieur, I really must protest," she said firmly. "Is this how you've been taught to treat women?"

"Shut your flapping mouth," the Comte snarled. His black eyes were livid and his frame shook slightly as he glared into Christine's eyes. "As my son grew from a small boy to a man, I couldn't have been prouder. He was driven, successful and ambitious—he was everything a father could ask for, and more. In my eyes, he could do no wrong—" his eyes grew even darker, filled with even more hatred. "—until he had the nerve to abandon my careful teaching and insist on marry common livestock like you. I had taught him to accept only the very best life had to offer and never settle for anything less. And after two decades of bringing him up, after two decades of the highest hopes I had ever felt for anyone—he was insolent enough to throw all of that away and marry the first ballet girl he sees. I lost any and all respect I felt for him after his marriage to you, and I feel no sadness or pity for his death," he spat. "He deserved to die young."

A snide smile slid over his face. "Fortunately, his death comes with its own additional rewards. I get to take back this house…and the pretty lady inside it," he said, smirking cruelly down at her, still keeping her arms pinned to the wall above her head.

A spear of fury embedded itself in Christine's heart. "Although the majority of France says otherwise, I will _not_ be talked about like I'm a rare painting or someone else's property!" she snapped, "I'd rather thrash in the fires of Damnation than live in the same house as you!"

The Comte's eyes lit up with malicious delight. "Oh, you'll be thrashing, all right. You'll be thrashing and screaming in a matter of minutes." Christine struggled against the Comte's suffocating grip until she felt stinging cramps in her arms, but he merely tightened it.

"It's useless to fight against me…Christine," he breathed, his voice suddenly silky like a cunning serpent right before it strikes. "The wolf always gets the rabbit in the end, am I correct?"

Christine's eyes widened, then her muscles automatically contracted in angry tension as she understood. "If you _dare_—"

"Oh, but I can," the Comte purred. "I am, in fact, a Comte…very few will be inclined to object to what I do, and as for this, who's going to find out?" His eyes glinted down at her.

"Find out about what, may I ask?" Christine demanded in a cutting voice. She tried again to free herself, but it was like trying to will stone to break of its own accord.

"Why should I spoil the surprise? That will take all the fun out of it. But I suspect you will realize my plan in due time." He paused, and his eyes became flintlike, burning. "Turn around…and take off your dress."

Christine's heart stopped even as the Comte's words stirred up terror and fury in her body. His words echoed in her mind, unreal. "No," she replied as calmly as she could.

"No, hmm?" The Comte's snakelike voice parroted back to her. He drew a loaded pistol out of his pocket and aimed it right between her eyes, cocking it. "Perhaps this will convince you more effectively to do as I say."

Christine stared down the dark barrel of his pistol, her mind refusing to comprehend the grave threat pointing at her head.

"Do it," he said, his eyes glowing malevolently. "I have absolutely no objection to pulling this trigger."

Christine didn't move. It felt like all the particles of her mind had frozen solid. Only now, did her brain register the fact that the thing the Comte was holding was called a _gun_.

The Comte lunged forward and grabbed the front of Christine's dress, ripping it down in a single motion and exposing a vertical strip of her naked skin to his eyes. At that moment, he seemed to abandon any remaining sense of humanity. Teeth bared in animalistic lust, he whirled her around to face the wall, his hands whipping around her shoulders to swiftly peel the remains of her black dress off her upper body and force it down past her hips. A keening whimper slipped past Christine's numb lips and she felt the unfeeling metal of the pistol barrel press into her temple.

"Be quiet," the Comte snarled. "This is only your initial training for the days ahead of you. One wrong move and, depending on my mood, the ordeal will be longer and more brutal, or you'll be dead before you draw breath again." He ground the gun barrel into her temple as he raked his fingers down her bare back, his fingernails digging into her buttocks.

Christine fought a scream as he rammed himself inside her. She could not believe this was happening to her. She could imagine it happening to a poor, unsuspecting wench in the streets, to an unfortunate wife by an abusive husband, or even in the Opera Populaire to unlucky, intoxicated chorus girls—but never to her. And yet it was. He shoved himself in and out of her without mercy—living, it seemed, only for his own pleasure. She felt like she was being ripped apart, the sensation the most painful she had ever encountered.

Sweet, precious Mary, it hurt in more ways than one. As he used her savagely, he was taking from her in other ways. The shame, guilt, horror, anger, and pain built up in her head, threatening to escape in a bitter scream, until she remembered the gun drilled into the side of her head. She let out a nearly silent whimper instead, biting her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood, felt it running down her chin as he took from her all that she held dear. His free hand slid over her bare breast, squeezing it viciously. Her muscles contracted instinctively in response and a snarl ripped out from his throat. She sensed that the end was near, but she could no longer feel anything, least of all any sense of caring.

_Well, it must have been good for him_, she thought dully as he exploded forcefully inside her. Her mind was devoid of all emotion, her head completely empty and detached. She could have been a corpse for all she cared. She could not longer remember what love was, what hate was, what joy or anger was. She was…nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The Comte jerked himself free from her and Christine collapsed facedown to the floor. He smirked as he set down his pistol and fastened his trousers back up. There was a faint note of victory in his voice as he bent down on one knee next to her and spoke quietly.

"This is only the beginning of your punishment for daring to marry the aristocrat that was my son," he breathed. "And I must thank you tremendously for cooperating and not crying out, otherwise I would have killed you, which wouldn't have been as satisfying. It gives me all the more joy to know you'll be going through a living hell every day for what your insolence and audacity in daring to seduce a pureblood man with your common blood." Then his malicious voice dropped a pitch lower. "No one will ever come to rescue you. No one will ever know you're alive after all. No one."

He laughed softly in her ear before straightening up and leaving the room.

* * *

The Comte de Chagny climbed the stairs with the air of someone who had just won a race and entered Christine's room. Without hesitation, he rang the bell, summoning all the maids. They filed in one by one, several in all. Some looked passively bored, others visibly nervous as they beheld the Comte. He spoke to them without any preamble.

"The Vicomtess had a fit a few minutes ago and must be taken to the hospital for an extended stay," he lied smoothly. "I had come to discuss with her the ownership of this house after her husband's death. In all situations, I am now the owner of this house and your new master. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," the maids murmured in unison.

"One more thing," he continued, his voice becoming dangerous. "There will be rumors floating around concerning the doings and whereabouts of our little Vicomtess. Some may say she was killed, others may claim she was kidnapped. You will believe only the explanation I give you now. _Anyone_ caught discussing this incident or any rumors concerning it will pay very, _very_ dearly. Do you all understand?"

The maids all murmured their assent.

"Good. Stay in your quarters until I summon you again," he commanded, and the six maids left.

The Comte smiled to himself in satisfaction. There was only one thing left to do, which would seal the little Vicomtess's fate forever. He strode back down the stairs briskly. After making sure Christine was still where he'd left her, he strode outside and found his accomplices by his carriage, smoking.

"You'll find Christine in the foyer. Do your duty."

The three men grunted, smiling in wicked amusement, and walked as one toward the de Chagny manor. The Comte watched them go, pleased that he had picked these three men. Apart from being brawny, they were also extremely loyal to him. As far as he was concerned, they were his servants in the underworld.

He thought back upon what he had done and smiled. It had been a very good day. Perhaps the best day of his life.

* * *

_I've just been raped by Raoul's father._

She was drifting. Her mind had been floating somewhere between heaven and hell, she couldn't tell where, before the words had crawled slowly on their hands and knees into her mind, forcing her back to reality and the absoluteness of the present and the unchangeable past.

She shivered. She was lying face down on the floor, half-naked, the air racing in waves over her bare skin and making her tremble with cold.

She had to get away from here. Soon. Now. Shaking, she straightened up and pulled the remains of her black dress over her shoulders. They hung down in shreds. The enormity of what had just happened hit her and she fell against the wall next to her, borrowing its strength so she wouldn't collapse again as she fought down the screaming urge to vomit.

_I can't do this, _she thought frantically._ I can't live here with a monster like him. I have to run away. It doesn't matter where. I need to get away from this place right now._

She pushed herself away from the wall and half-ran, half-stumbled towards the stairs. But before she had moved five feet, a pair of rough hands grabbed her shoulders, jerking them back brutally and forcing her feet to reverse its course. A second pair pinned her hands behind her back as a man came into sight walking slowly towards her.

Christine struggled as much as she could against the two men holding her captive, but their strength overwhelmed her. So it had come to this, hadn't it? Her body wasn't enough for just the Comte de Chagny to take advantage of. Before, she had been decimated by one man. Now she was about to be decimated by three. The terror, poisonous and swift, pulsed anew through her veins.

"No…no…no…" she cried desperately.

"Oh, yes, Christine," the one in front of her hissed, having reached her. "Oh, _yes_."

The shock of having her own name spoken by a total stranger stunned her momentarily into silence, and the man took the opportunity to clap his hand swiftly over Christine's mouth and nose. Frantic, she twisted her head from side to side, trying to breathe, but his hand kept up easily. She soon realized her mistake when she recognized the sickly-sweet smell of chloroform soaking through the cloth in his hand she hadn't seen, often used to knock patients unconscious when they needed to get operated on. Already her vision was becoming blurrier, darker, the lamps of the foyer fading out into frightening blackness as she felt her knees giving out once more. Dizzying scarlet circles were digging into her eyelids as her vision dimmed further and further.

"We got her," one of the men holding her said with a deep-seated satisfaction. "Once she gets there, she'll never escape from that place."

Those were the last words Christine heard before blacking out completely.

* * *

The Comte de Chagny watched with satisfaction as his men came back out of the de Chagny manor. Two of them carried Christine, whose head lolled from side to side limply as they made their way to the waiting carriage. The third man held the door open as the other two hoisted the unconscious Christine into it. With an air of expectancy, the three hulking men turned away from the carriage and fanned themselves out into a line facing the Comte.

"Take her to the brothel," he commanded them, relishing the words that rolled smoothly off his practiced tongue. "Keep chloroforming her to keep her asleep if necessary."

He carelessly tossed a bag of coins to each of them, throwing the bottle of chloroform to the man on the far right. In unison, three arms arced through the air to catch their prizes. The men nodded their acknowledgement and boarded the carriage, the last one climbing onto the driver's seat. He picked up the whip, and with an ominous snap, sent the black horses on their way.

The Comte smiled as the carriage rolled away. Christine, drugged and unconscious, had no idea what was in store for her, and that was exactly the way he liked it.

_Goodbye, my little Vicomtess, _he thought, his upper lip curling in triumph. _In the end, I always get the last laugh._


	3. The Article

Chapter Three: The Article

Erik heard the flop of the newspaper as it fell through the door slot, but he was too busy composing to care. Sheets and sheets of staff paper surrounded him—stacked on the piano, fallen on the floor—all filled with complex harmonies and melodies other composers would have killed to take credit for.

_Well, they won't find me here_, he thought with grim satisfaction. He had evaded the French police well, and had conducted his escape from and return to France with such skill that he would be surprised if the police ever found him again—right under their noses in the center of Paris! And if they did—Erik's eyes strayed to his collection of Punjab lassoes lying nearby—he would do whatever was necessary to escape. Part of him knew he ought to rot in prison forevermore for the unspeakable sins he had committed during the course of his life. But for now, he preferred to be selfish and live free instead.

God knew that sorrow over losing Christine forever was punishment enough for his crimes against humanity.

Erik sighed deeply, the sound tinged with unspeakable sadness. He knew that the most logical solution for his constant heartache was to forget Christine and move on. But try as he possibly might, he found he simply couldn't. This was no mere infatuation, this was a bond and a desire that had lasted for years. He had loved her for so long and had lost her in a single heartbeat…it was so brutal that he felt that he had also lost half of himself that night as he watched Christine sail away from him with his rival.

After that night and the dark days that followed, he lived minute by minute, feeling like his heart had been forcefully ripped into two without anesthetic. Now the pain had reduced to a dull, pounding ache that he knew would never go away.

_Oh, Christine, why did you recognize Raoul that day when he was introduced as the Opera Populaire's new patron?_

He refused to find fault with her. He couldn't. Everything that could be blamed on someone, he blamed on himself rather than her. He refused to sully her, even in his mind. And he was used to self-degradation. It was a deal that worked.

His chest throbbed painfully as her face wavered before his vision. He still loved her, and the knowledge that he would never touch or see her again drove all the hurt and pain inward, where they found their way out again through his music.

Music. God had been kind to grant the art of music to man. The skilled musician could find and express emotions in music that people would never had found otherwise, and it was through music now that he poured all his sorrow and all passion into. Operas, ballads, miscellaneous compositions had taken shape under his practiced fingers since the days of Christine. And over time, the pain over his heart's loss had lessened a very little.

He was grateful for that.

He scribbled down the notes he had just played and stood up from the piano bench, stretching his cramped muscles. Curious as to what the newspaper held in store for him, he made his way between the numerous small stacks of books scattered over the floor, reaching the paper at last and picking it up.

He scanned the headlines quickly. The cover story concerned an elite jewelry chain store that had been robbed of millions of francs-worth of diamonds the night before. Erik was just about to turn the page when he saw it.

**VICOMTESS De CHAGNY ADMITTED TO EXTENDED STAY IN HOSPITAL**

Erik's eyes widened and his throat constricted in shock. He turned on his heel, half-running to his mahogany desk and turning up the gas level in the lamp so that the light flared up brightly. He started reading, his eyes racing over the words.

Christine de Chagny, née Daaé, has been admitted  
to the Greater Parisian Hospital after suffering an  
apparent heart attack. There has been no mention of  
when she will be released. However, it is evident  
from examinations of her person that she may  
be confined to the hospital for three months or more.

It is rumored that Christine de Chagny, now the  
widow of the recently-deceased Vicomte de Chagny,  
went into shock at the newfound knowledge  
regarding the ownership of the de Chagny  
manor and that in turn triggered the heart attack.

Through a series of obscure laws regarding  
ownership of property after the original  
owner dies, the Comte de Chagny is now  
the owner of the de Chagny manor that  
the Vicomtess has, until recently, lived in.

"It is so very unfortunate that the Vicomtess de  
Chagny lost the property that, under most  
circumstances, should be rightfully hers," the  
Comte de Chagny said in a written statement  
to reporters. "But laws are laws. I must express  
my utmost sympathy for her plight and my  
sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery."

Erik straightened up slowly as he reached the end of the article, forcing his fingers to release the edges of the paper. He took several deep breaths and tried to think clearly.

Raoul was dead.

He supposed that he should've been jubilant that his rival for Christine's love was forever gone from this earth, but instead, he felt…slightly sorry. The feeling surprised him. He was _sorry_ that his old enemy was dead?

_Yes_, his numb mind responded calmly. After all, Raoul truly wasn't a bad sort when it came down to pure fact. The only problem he had ever had with Raoul, Erik realized, was that Raoul was a handsome fellow who happened to be in love with the same woman Erik had adored for years.

Well, that _and_ his hair. Raoul's hair had been ridiculously long. So many times Erik had been tempted to ambush Raoul with a pair of gardening shears and…

The wry smile slid off Erik's face and he sobered. So it was just him and Christine now. The fatal love triangle was broken. At that moment, he wanted Christine so badly he would have gladly cut off his right hand—his composing hand—if it meant she would appear beside him. Deep down, he knew he didn't have the strength to go on without her. She had been the point of his very existence for years. He had to find her, to enchant her again like he did once before, make her heart completely open to him…

_I can't do that_, he thought, now pacing his cramped apartment furiously, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks as he feverishly walked back and forth over the worn carpet. He couldn't just show up mere days after her husband's death seeking her affection. Indeed, he was sure his efforts would be in vain. Christine couldn't possibly love him after all the atrocities he had committed in order to win her. As the weeks passed and the fateful night of the _Don Juan_ premiere grew distant, the cynical part of his mind had convinced him that Christine had not kissed him out of love, but only as a sign to show her acceptance as his bride. Only that, and nothing more. He suspected that if he had any self-respect, he should have thrown himself off the roof of the burning Opera Populaire that night rather than continue living and pining away for Christine. And in all reality, he couldn't track her down. Like it or not, he was a wanted man in Paris, and although he was always wary whenever he ventured outside, the second he stepped into the wrong place he would be recognized and hunted down like an animal. Anyway, the sight of him mere days after her husband's death would only make Christine's presently-weakened condition worse.

_Wait_, he thought, his eyes narrowing, turning back around and making his way back towards the article lying on his desk. Something had been nudging gently at him once he had finished reading the article, and not until now did it jab at him more insistently. He couldn't explain why, but something didn't seem quite right about what he had just read. He picked up the newspaper and read the article again.

Certain phrases jumped out at him: _confined to the hospital for three months or more…no mention of when she will be released…a series of obscure laws regarding ownership of property…'I must express my utmost sympathy for her plight'…_

Erik's mind was trying to tell him something, but it took further rereading of the article before it finally hit him.

Somewhere along the way, someone had lied. The article was written with a subtle, strange falseness to it, and it made him deeply suspicious. The writer had made up details, or had been bribed to keep the truth silent. Either way, there was a chance, no matter how small, that Christine had not suffered a heart attack.

Erik took a deep breath and let it out slowly. What should he do now? Perhaps he was just being paranoid. Maybe the writer of the article was being honest after all. But he had a talent for finding the truth among lies, and he was not going to ignore what his mind was saying, especially where Christine was involved.

He did not trust the Comte de Chagny at all. But he instinctively knew that if he was to find answers regarding Christine, he would find them at the de Chagny manor. Either Christine would be there, in varying degrees of wellness, or she…wouldn't be. Frightening images of Christine, dead or wandering the streets alone, paraded through his head and he forced his mind to stop generating them. If she wasn't there at the de Chagny manor, he would deal with it one way or another.

He didn't have to listen to the disapproving mumblings in the back of his mind to know that he was taking a great risk in travelling to the de Chagny manor. If he miscalculated one thing, he could be caught and imprisoned for God knew how long. Perhaps even executed, if the Comte was in a foul mood. But for Christine's sake, he had to go there. He had to try. Deep down, he realized that not until he knew the truth about Christine, would he have peace of mind.

* * *

Aurore didn't like the Comte de Chagny. His dark eyes were cold, his walk a swagger, his laugh almost cruel. From the first time she had laid eyes on him, having been summoned to the Vicomtess's room, she had firmly made up her mind that the Comte de Chagny was a bad sort and definitely not to be trusted.

She had been suspicious of his explanation regarding the Vicomtess's absence, but the imminent threat in his voice when he warned against discussion of the Vicomtess's malady had quailed Aurore into a brooding silence. Having a child and a mother of old age to take care of, she could not afford to lose her job here.

That didn't stop her from being extremely wary of the Comte. Although Aurore was not a young woman anymore, she had an admirable figure for her age, and she knew the Comte had looked at her several times with more than just passing interest. It was because of this that she secretly kept a dagger with her at all times. She was not fearful of men in general, but she was not ignorant to their occasional crimes against women. The Comte in particular made her put up her guard at all times when she was working in the de Chagny manor.

She had been summoned to the drawing room where she knew the Comte was entertaining some of his aristocratic friends. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the door open and beheld the Baron Laurent and the Comte Molyneux, laughing a little too heartily at a joke that the Comte de Chagny had just finished telling.

"Ah, Aurore!" the Comte de Chagny said loudly, beckoning her closer. "Just in time. As you can see, we are running a little low on cognac, why don't you get us some more? Oh yes, and also some of those rare cheeses and brandied pears."

"Yes, sir," Aurore murmured, and turned to go. She jumped slightly in surprise, her eyes blazing in anger, as a blow landed on her buttocks. She forced a mask of nonchalance over her features as she turned halfway around to the group of three.

"Be quick about it, sugar!" the Comte Molyneux roared, prompting laughter from him and the Baron Laurent. Her heart seething, she left the room, but not before seeing the smirk on the Comte de Chagny's face.

She strode down the hallway, a maelstrom raging in her breast. Had that really happened to her? Unless her mind was conducting an elaborate deception, the Baron Laurent and the Comte Molyneux were already exhibiting signs of drunkenness. As for the Comte de Chagny, she wasn't sure. She could almost forgive them for crossing the line. And yet, she couldn't. Proper men never, ever gave women sideways glances or used them like she had just been used in the drawing room.

From what she knew of the Comte de Chagny and his friends, she knew they weren't proper, whether they were sober or not.

Baring her teeth in anger, she rattled around the expansive kitchen and pantry, grabbing another bottle of cognac, fetching the cheeses and pears and arranging them on a platter.

She smoothed out her face once again as she walked down the corridor to the drawing room, her arms full with the decorative platter. The laughter and talk from the three aristocrats was plainly audible despite the thick wooden doors. She carefully balanced the platter on one hand and was about to touch the door handle with the other when her mind made sense of what she was hearing. Against her better judgment, she laid the platter on a nearby table and knelt down next to the closed drawing room door, pressing her ear to the keyhole.

"So," the Comte Molyneux said, his tongue thick with too much brandy, "I read the article this morning concerning the Vicomtess's little condition. Interesting read, if I must say so myself. From what I heard, the Vicomtess is a true beauty of a woman. Really, now, is she so ladylike to be beautiful _and_ have such a delicate heart that she goes into shock at a startling revelation? For, forgive me, Augustin," the Comte said, hiccupping, "but knowing the way you are with women, is that _really_ what happened? She had a heart attack, did she? Or are you pulling Paris's leg?"

"My dear fellow, you are right in assuming she will be out of action for a very long while," came the Comte de Chagny's reply. "But I have to say, your powers of reasoning saw through my façade. She is not in the Greater Parisian Hospital like the article claimed." Here he paused, either for dramatic effect, or to take another sip of the rapidly-disappearing cognac.

"Well, then, what happened to her?" came the slurred voice of the Baron Laurent. "Do tell us, Augustin—you know I don't like guessing games."

Aurore pressed her ear even tighter to the keyhole and rearranged her skirts so that she was more comfortable. She resettled herself just in time to hear the Comte de Chagny's suddenly quiet reply.

"I sent her to a brothel, but not before having a little fun with her first."

Aurore froze, her heart crashing in her throat. There was a moment of absolute silence, then the sound of low, almost malevolent laughter. Aurore heard a couple of dull whacks of something hitting fabric, which she took for hearty claps on the back from the Comte Molyneux and the Baron Laurent.

"Well done, my good brother!" the Baron Laurent crowed triumphantly. "I could have, should have, suspected all along. The prettiest ones always make their way underground, as you know. But do tell me, for I seem to have forgotten…what grudge did you hold against her, if any?"

"Her background," the Comte de Chagny said simply. "Her background and how she handled it. She's from Sweden, for one thing. That alone is enough to irk me. I care a very great deal about the de Chagny family line. For four hundred years, we've been a family of pure French aristocrats. I don't want it to be tainted by some Swedish woman, mo matter how rich or attractive she was. And also—" The Comte's voice grew dark and angry. "She's a _peasant_ girl. Did you hear me, my good friends? A _peasant_. No noble blood in her whatsoever. A common girl working in the chorus of the former Opera Populaire. She had the nerve to pursue a relationship with my son. Completely unacceptable!" This last remark was accompanied by an emphatic thump of a fist on the table. When the Comte spoke again, it was with a faint note of defiant pride. "She was not in her place. Since she would not give it up, I brought her back down to where she belonged."

More drunken laughter. Aurore leaned away from the keyhole, her heart pounding. She had not heard that. She couldn't have heard that. She deeply respected the Vicomtess de Chagny, who had been kind to her and made a point of always being grateful for her services. Aurore couldn't imagine her in a brothel, the lowest of low society. And yet, it was exactly the kind of thing the Comte de Chagny would do.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain her breath, and her eyes drifted up to the platter of food still sitting on the table near her. She had to deliver it. Every second that she didn't come through the door, a small part of their intoxicated minds would grow more suspicious. Perhaps, if she played her cards well, she could learn more about the Vicomtess and what had nappened to her. Getting up from her crouch, she shook her clothes straight and smoothed her hair. Thinking quickly, she reached over and took a blown-glass ornament from the table, slipping it into her apron pocket. Picking up the heavy tray of food, she opened the drawing room door again with some trepidation.

She had timed her entrance well. The three aristocrats were in the middle of another peal of laughter and did not realize her presence until several seconds later.

"Aurore, excellent! Right there on the table," the Comte de Chagny said a little too loudly, carelessly waving a hand to dismiss her.

Aurore turned around to go, slipping the glass ornament out of her pocket and let it fall, buying her some more time in the room. The sphere landed with a solid thump, but did not shatter. Slowly, Aurore bent down to pick it up, keeping her ears wide open.

"That's a Devil's Gateguard for you, my brother," the Baron Laurent said, lifting his now-full goblet of cognac to the Comte de Chagny. "Indeed, the Vicomtess will be a new and precious treasure to our network. They ought to promote you to an Imperial Guard now!"

A whoop of support from the Comte Molyneux.

"Oh, Mannequin House will be delighted," the Comte de Chagny roared, suddenly jubilant. "A toast—to the future of the Devil's Gateguards!"

Cries of agreement and the enthusiastic clink of crystal goblets against one another. Aurore slipped out of the room stealthily and very quietly pushed the door closed. Her legs felt weak and she gripped the door handle to stay upright.

What had she just heard? The Comte de Chagny and his friends were part of a secret society that had sent the Vicomtess to a brothel. Whatever ill will she had suspected the Comte to be capable of conducting, this crime had exceeded them all. Her head spun and she closed her eyes to escape the dizzying blur of her surroundings.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

_And what do I do now?_


	4. The Interrogations

Chapter Four: The Interrogations

As much as it killed him, Erik forced himself to wait for the cover of darkness before starting out on his mission. The entire day, he stayed in his apartment. Sitting down scribbling down plans and details, standing, pacing feverishly to and fro. He walked over the same areas so many times he faintly wondered why the carpet hadn't worn down yet. When he flicked open the drapes and saw the setting sun burning sharp and piercing into his eyes, he couldn't wait anymore.

He was familiar with the patterns of his mind. Any extreme excitement of his soul would cause his body to go numb and perform duties automatically while his mind and its bounty of emotions took over. Isolated from the world around him, he could hear only his thoughts and the faint, angry stirrings of his heart as he rode the hour-and-a-half ride to the de Chagny manor. Nochescura loved a lengthy gallop like he did. A gift from a client who had commissioned one of his operas, she pelted quickly and relentlessly over the hard ground as he simply sat in the saddle, his mind completely taken over by suspicion, fear, and a burning desire to know the _truth_.

He knew the way to the de Chagny manor like the back of his hand, but how he knew it, he had no idea. Perhaps, growing up here, he had passed by it in his youth. After the fateful night underneath the Opera Populaire, he swore to himself never to go there of his own free will, never to watch them live their happy life together from afar—their two faces, flickering in the light from the fire, perhaps holding a cooing baby…

A suffocating wave of anger and self-hatred rolled over him. Their faces—beautiful, handsome and unmarked—guaranteed a life of happiness and love. What of him, then? A Devil's Child, untouchable spawn of Satan, diseased like a leper, cast off from all society and driven underground by every soul who had ever seen him. His face gave people leave to mock him, scorn him, shun him. For what? For _what?_ Did they not realize he was still a human being? One that could cry, scream in pain, cover his face in utter shame and misery? Every time someone had pointed, screamed, shouted at him, his heart had broken until it couldn't possibly repair itself anymore. Never, for all time.

"Well done, my good people," he snarled aloud to the back of Nochescura's head and the trees flashing by him. "Your cruel taunts, your screams, have finally done your work."

He sighed. Only one person had ever touched his life, gave him hope that there was a purpose in living. Desolate, mourning for her father, she was suffocating under a heavy veil of mourning, and her saddened soul had called to his own, enough that he had been driven to tentatively make his presence known. And she had come to him like a devoted pet comes to its owner, for him to draw gently under his wing and hold close to his heart. No matter how insubstantial the bond was at times, he knew they both found comfort in each other. No matter what horrors he had witnessed in his life, his voice in itself always remained a thing of beauty to wrap Christine in comfort, to shield her from the world. Perhaps he meant to create a fantasy world of sorts.

Fantasy world no longer. It had been destroyed. A make-believe universe, it seemed, was too good for Christine. She preferred reality, she preferred the truth. As pathetic as it was, _he_ preferred the fantasy. Reality was too harsh for him; he had learned that the hard way.

Ironically, it was reality that he was now seeking.

He pulled up on the edge of the de Chagny grounds and jumped down in one smooth motion.

"There, there, Nochescura," he murmured as he patted her neck. "Good job."

Nochescura snorted proudly and tossed her head as Erik patted her neck again and set off at a half-run towards the house.

All his senses were on high alert as he peered through the window nearest him, looking for the slightest sign of life from within. In his peripheral vision, he sensed a flash of movement, and his eyes jerked to it almost before his mind registered it.

He saw several things at once. A well-dressed man turning away from the lit fireplace, a suspiciously smug smile on his face. A hand with drink, cut off from Erik's view by the window frame, raised in a toast. A copy of the newspaper he had read earlier that day, lying flat on the table, the headline of Christine's hospital stay blaring.

Erik backed away a few steps, his eyes narrowed, and ran a circuit around the de Chagny manor. Cloaked by darkness, he took a quick look through every window as he passed them.

An ornate hallway with gilded walls. A spacious foyer. A room with a canopy bed. Another smaller corridor with a maid dusting that led to the drawing room, with the man he had seen earlier and his friends. No Christine.

He drew to a stop where he began his circuit, panting slightly for breath and black storm clouds brewing in his heart. Christine was not on the first floor of the manor, but something told him that she wasn't in the house at all. He didn't know who the man in the drawing room was, but he was not stupid. Unless someone had decided to break into the manor and act like he owned the place, he was looking at the Comte de Chagny himself.

An angry shiver ran down his back, a quiet snarl slipping out from his teeth as he glared at the Comte de Chagny. _Monsieur la Comte, what have you done with Christine? _He thought, almost wishing his shouted thoughts could travel through the window glass. _Unless my perception of her is completely skewed, Christine never would have done anything to offend you._

_Unless_…his mind was galloping to new realms he had never explored before. Christine's humble background was the only thing he could think of that could anger the Comte. If the Comte had done anything to her, that would have been the reason.

Maybe it was only his deluded mind goading him to wilder and wilder theories about Christine's fate, but underneath it all he was certain that the newspaper article had been a lie. Wherever Christine was, she was definitely not in a hospital recovering from a heart attack.

He sprinted at a crouch right up to the window. If the Comte de Chagny or his friends felt like looking out the north-facing window in their room, they would come face-to-face with the former Phantom of the Opera himself. Fortunately, no one in the room appeared to be seized with a burning desire to look out the window he was now standing next to.

A thread of frustration pulsed through him as he stood there. The window glass muffled the aristocrats' conversation enough so that not even Erik's sensitive ears could make any sense of it. Sighing inwardly, he edged over to an adjacent window that offered a view of the empty hallway that led into the drawing room. He picked the latch mechanism and eased the window open, climbing into the manor soundlessly and closing the window again. He ran at a crouch up to the closed drawing room door where the Comte de Chagny and his friends were, and pressed his ear to the door.

"Ah, my friend, I thank you most sincerely for the information regarding our little Vicomtess," a slurred voice said. "Always looking to contribute to the Gateguards, you are!"

"I do what my heart tells me," came the Comte's reply. Erik's muscles tensed of their own accord. The Comte's voice had a subtle snakelike quality to it, which reflexively gave him an adrenaline rush.

"Aye, Augustin, and I think we ought to say our goodbyes at this point," came another heavy, drugged-sounding voice. "I have business of my own to attend to; and so does René, I'm sure."

A low groan of acknowledgement from the first speaker. "Yes, we'll go and leave you be. And we must express our thanks again for telling us the circumstances of the Vicomtess…in full."

Movement of heavy fabric, probably coats. A muttered curse as something heavy fell to the floor. Feet stumbling slightly as they supported bodily weight again.

"Indeed," the Comte de Chagny replied. "I must regretfully close this gathering as well. I must make my rounds in the halls." When he spoke again, his voice became lower, pulsing with a strange energy that sent fluttering chills down Erik's spine. "Long live the Guards."

"Long live the Guards!" the Comte's two friends echoed, too drunk to get the pronunciation correct.

Erik's muscles sprang into action as he darted away from the sound of footsteps approaching the door. He ran light-footed to an adjacent room, leaving the door open a millimeter as the two aristocrats exited the drawing room and meandered their way down the hallway, stumbling slightly under the influence of alcoholic drink. Erik held his breath as they passed by, then scuttled out like a mouse as they turned a corner and disappeared. He followed them at a distance….and then his eyes lighted on a maid, maybe thirty years old, dusting the window ledges. It crashed down upon him in an instant.

Maids. They knew everything. They went everywhere in a house, interacting with their superiors, picking up bits of conversation. If one needed information, all they had to do was corner a maid and demand it.

All of this tumbled over him in a fraction of a second. Already his feet were moving towards the woman.

"Madamoiselle…" he said softly to her.

The woman turned around and let out a shriek, which she managed to brutally stifle in her throat. Erik's fists clenched slightly at the biting reminder of the pariah that he was.

"You're…you're…you're the…." She stuttered.

His jaw hardened. "It doesn't matter who I am or what I look like. Right now I'm just a man in dire need of information and I know that you can give me some."

The maid let out a gasp and tried to run. At that very moment, something inside Erik snapped, giving way to something much darker and much more aggressive. He was done with niceties. He had come here to find the truth, and he bloody well did not plan to leave until he found it.

It was too easy to catch up to her. Erik grabbed the unfortunate Aurore by the shoulders and forcefully slammed her to the wall, planting his hands on either side of her so she couldn't escape. She stared up at his masked face with terrified eyes.

"What did the Comte do with the Vicomtess?" he snarled.

The maid let out a keening whimper. "I don't know, monsieur, I don't know!"

"You and I both know you're lying," Erik replied smoothly, eyes glittering down at her. "Tell me the truth and tell me _now_, otherwise we'll both come to a nasty end when the Comte de Chagny finds us."

The trapped woman shook her head furiously, her hair flying from side to side under her cap. "I can't! I can't! He'll kill me!"

Erik exhaled sharply in pure annoyance. "You foolish woman! Do you not realize that if you tell me now, you may yet live if you have a careful tongue afterwards? I'm not going to leave until you tell me something, something truthful. The longer you take, the longer I'll stay, and the greater the chance that the Comte will find us here. So you see," he concluded, his voice harsh. "It really is better if you tell me what I want now and not later. Because I happen to know for a fact that the Comte is roaming the halls of this manor right now."

The maid shook her head desperately. "No, no, no…." she cried in a whisper. "I can't do that…"

"Just imagine what the Comte would do to you if he discovered us here," he whispered, the hands trapping her clenching into fists. "Perhaps a repeat of what he did to Christine."

His reply, hypnotic in its quiet intensity, made the woman pale so drastically that Erik wondered for a moment if she was going to faint. She took a deep, shaky breath. "The Comte had Christine taken to a…to a brothel."

A vicious snarl ripped forth from Erik's throat. The woman recoiled as he bared his teeth in fury and banged his fist against the wall, no longer caring whether they were caught or not. He dropped his arms and paced furiously up and down the hall, trying to keep his rage tight and controlled before he took it out on the maid. He whipped around on his heel and rounded on her again.

"Where is it and what is its name?" he fired at her, his eyes glittering with a focused, deadly anger.

She flinched a little at this furious gaze, but answered. "It's four hours away from here, to the south. It's called Mannequin House. I also heard mention of a group called the Devil's Gateguards, which the Comte and some of his friends are a part of. The Gateguards may be the ones running the brothel."

She had scarcely said these words when alarmingly close footfalls reached their ears. Their eyes locked for a split second, then the maid grabbed her skirts and scuttled away. Erik took no notice of her. All his energy was focused on leaping silently out the open window across from him to the hard ground below. He banged his shoulder against the window pane as he made his escape, but it was too late to be stealthy. He hit the ground without a sound and dived into one of the niches built into the side of the manor.

Stuffing his forearm into his mouth to stifle his breathing, he peered up above him. The sky was completely black with grey stripes of clouds that ripped low and heavy above him. A small roof of sorts partially obscured him from watchful eyes overhead. If he stayed still, there was a good chance that he would not be discovered, even if the Comte looked down at the grounds of the manor. There were certain advantages, he discovered long ago, that came with wearing black clothing.

His breath froze in his throat as he saw the prominent chin of the Comte de Chagny above him arching out to the velvet sky above. The Comte stayed like that for several moments—an eternity, it seemed like—before withdrawing his hand back in.

Erik's breath unhitched itself and flowed out from him in a constrained rush. He stealthily edged out of the niche, peering upwards for any sign of life. Finding none, he pelted across the grass to the waiting Nochescura, mounted her and rode away at a hard gallop.

_It's the way of the wounded child_, he thought grimly. Depart the scene, hole up, absorb and recuperate, emerge, do it all again. He was familiar with that pattern. He had gone through it many times.

He needed to get away from here. Find a sanctuary for the darkest soul, look through every ounce and atom of himself, and somehow save his love.

_Christine, _he thought, his surprisingly-human heart ringing in his head._ For your sake, even if you loathe me now, even if I am killed later, I will do absolutely everything in my power to rescue you. _


	5. The Depths of Hell

**Q: Why is there random poetry in here?  
A: It's an avant-garde way of showing Christine's thoughts. Enjoy!**

Chapter Five: The Depths of Hell

Christine could see nothing but the open drain sunken into the dank floor in front of her as she crawled frantically across the filthy stone to the far corner of her cell—the only place in this building where she could remember who she was, what she was, and all that was horribly wrong with the place she was in. She forced back her self-disgust as the familiar heaving sensation rippled upwards from her stomach right out her mouth. Her vomit hit the floor with a sickeningly-loud sound, but most of it made its way through the drain to the small river of waste flowing below her.

_Pushed past caring anymore  
Never going to get out  
No way out  
Only Death surrounded by Death  
Itself and of all Humanity  
Hear each one dying  
With a helpless soul  
And ally he is not  
CousinofGodBrotheroftheDEVIL  
Hopeisbutmortal  
He'll lead you into—_

She wiped her mouth, the motion painfully practiced and familiar from similar movements in the past. She had lost so much of herself here. All her beliefs of evil, humanity, and love had been forcefully stripped away from her, leaving her naked to the world.

_Naked…_she fought back another retch as her hand clenched her chest helplessly. She was nothing now. Only a defenseless child, thrown out in the cold and left to the lions to fend for herself. Over time, she felt something necessary, vital, draining out of her until she had became only a whisper of a human.

Meg would have said Christine's life force was being sucked away from her.

She hugged herself and rocked, hoping with all her might that the rhythmic motion would keep back the tears that came at the thought of her dear friend. Having learned the hard way that crying only made her captors crueler and her clients more abusive, she was constantly choking back the emotion that was bottling up in her fragile body day by day, until the rational part of her wondered with awe how she could contain the despairing scream that her heart was vibrating so hard in its effort to suppress.

Lurching up from her crouch next to the drain, she slowly made her way to the northern wall of her dank cell. Pale tally marks gleamed faintly in the dark stone, lit by a tiny window above that gave the inhabitant a nondescript view of the apocalyptic world outside. Like so many things she had lost, she had also lost track of the number of days she had been here. On her second day here, she had found a slender, pointed stone lying on the floor that marked easily on the walls. Each night, she had carved another line into the growing group of marks, counting the days until her rescue…or her death.

She would have continued the habit, if it hadn't been for Xavier's inspections. The manager of the brothel was a ruthless man with oily, unkempt hair and stained teeth. One day, Christine got unlucky, or perhaps Xavier's eyes had suddenly become sharper overnight. Upon seeing the stone lying on the floor and Christine's tally marks on the adjacent wall, he picked it up, turning it this way and that, before suddenly lunging forward and slapping Christine savagely across the face hard enough to make her vision explode into blinding white starbursts.

"Nobody's going to come rescue you," he snarled viciously as she stumbled from his blow and tried to regain her balance. "Nor are you ever going to escape from this place. You bring us plenty of hard cash, and so we keep you. Business has improved significantly since your arrival. Why give up something that brings good money? " He came right up to her, their noses almost touching. "Once you cross the threshold of this place," he breathed, a gleam in his eye, "there's no going back. Not while you're alive."

Her jaw had clenched upon hearing his words, making the veil of pain on her left cheek throb and burn. She recognized dimly that she was angry, but could not organize her thoughts and reasons together. Her time here, suffering from the onslaught of terror and pain, had caused her brain to slacken and lose its ability to function properly.

"Do you have anything to say?"

Xavier always did that to her. The girls...the whores and harlots were to stand at attention and be absolutely silent while their cells were inspected. They were expected to take any criticism, any physical abuse without uttering a word, unless the one inspecting the cell expressly allowed them to. Xavier always gave that chance to her, only to throw it back in her face. After a while, she had resolved herself to keep a defiant silence rather than ruin her already shaky pride. However, this time the words in her mind could not be content with merely running around in circles inside her. Christine felt the strange sensation of her veins tightening as she spoke.

"There is nothing wrong with counting days. It is only a number," she had said levelly, looking into his onyx eyes.

Xavier had let out a guttural growl at that, and the gleam in his eyes became even more dangerous. "There is something _very_ wrong with counting days…_bitch_," he snarled, his lips curling back from his yellow teeth.

As if to drive his point home, Xavier had dragged the sharp stone across the soft flesh of Christine's upper arm. The stone was sharp enough that it had actually broken her skin, making blood ooze lazily from the gash.

Christine let out a cry of pain and grabbed her arm as Xavier sneered.

"You are a pretty little thing," he breathed, flames in his eyes. "Perhaps I ought to tell your clients to punish you more often…"

And with that, Xavier had turned on his heel and left, taking the stone and Christine's only source of documentation with her. He slammed the door, locking it with a click that sent goosebumps down Christine's entire back as she sank down into a fetal position on the cold stone floor, cradling her injured arm and crying.

After that incident, she had lost track of the number of days she had stayed here. Instead, she knew only degrees of light and gradients of darkness that seemed to cycle relentlessly on forever.

Christine now stretched out her left arm and ran her fingers over the long scar that marred her pale skin. It had healed some time ago, another vague indicator of how long she had been here. The wound had left a dark, raised line about five inches long on her forearm, and she knew it would never go away.

She was tired, so tired. She had been pushed down so far she didn't know how she could possibly be pushed any further. Every man—how could they be men?—who came and requested her left satisfied, and with each victorious smirk she saw and each clink of coins she heard, she had died inside again.

Just a shell. Living for others' desire and pleasure.

What little she had managed to learn of this place and the people running it was nothing close to salvation. Part brothel, part prison, it was run by a gang called the Devil's Gateguards, which specialized in drug rings and prostitution. They had been named as such for a reason—they were in essence the ones allowing people access to Hell and the darker side of human nature. Inspections of the cells were carried out every several days. The cells were required to be completely bare, except for the customary bed. Cold showers were allowed twice a week. There was no love here—only lust and brutal punishment.

Worst of all were the faces. This brothel catered exclusively to members of the Devil's Gateguards. In order to validate their identity, each client wore a mask over their face. Not just any mask. A black domino mask, exactly identical to the one Erik had worn in Don Juan Triumphant.

It was a farce of the bitterest, most morbid kind. If Christine hadn't been in a brothel, she would have laughed at the hilarity of it. Instead, she was mocked by each leering man who came before her. Each a potential vision of Erik wavering before her eyes…and with each scaled mountain that was not hers, each one a cruel dream of how any possible reunion could have been. Everything was his: his lust, his body, and his triumph.

Her captors didn't keep it a secret that they had an aristocrat under their thumb for any gang member to use as they wished. Some had deduced exactly who she was, which made them even more voracious in their appetite, even crueler in their taunts to her.

She had no contact with the other women here and she wasn't sure she wanted to establish any. She wondered how many of them were here of their own free will, sating their darkest desires with whoever walked through their door. A shudder ran through her. To become one of them would be her worst nightmare. Her mind reassured her that she wasn't one of them…yet. Something, perhaps her innocence or an intangible pureness of her heart, kept her rooted and gently restrained her from drifting uncontrollably over to the other side. Whatever it was, she held on to it tightly day by day, knowing it was in essence the only thing keeping her who she was.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this," she said aloud to the four walls imprisoning her. Whatever was keeping her sane, she sensed that it wouldn't last forever.

She shivered. One of her clients had said exactly the same thing to her just half an hour ago through his black mask. It was almost like Erik himself had been saying those chilling words, pronouncing her fate.

Her fingertips played lightly across her stomach. It was a wonder that she wasn't pregnant yet. It seemed that her body had shut off some of its routines in response to the overwhelming stress on her body and mind.

Whispered words from _Don Juan Triumphant_ wormed into her exhausted mind. _In your mind, you've already succumbed to me—dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me…_

The earshattering banging of a fist hitting her door shut off the flow of her tears and her hand flew away from her stomach. Her core clenched in terrified apprehension as sweat broke out all over her back. Another client was here, to couple forcefully with her and snarl words that would break down her remaining strongholds against destruction, all while wearing the mask that would make her nightmares even more real.

Her teeth clenched together, a sense of dutifulness she could not understand coursing through her. As long as she was forced to stay here, she might as well do everyone else some good.


	6. The Angel

CHAPTER SIX: THE ANGEL

Xavier's grating voice, low and pleased, reached Christine's ears. Rapidly running her fingers through her hair, she smoothed out her shift, sitting gingerly on the bed. Her very blood seemed to be tingling and shaking with nerves as she listened to the voices outside her room.

"I do think you will be pleased with her, monsieur," Xavier said, clearly groveling to the Devil's Gateguard he was about to lead into her cell. "She is no homeless girl we picked up off the streets. She's an aristocrat of sorts, and no doubt very practiced in her field of producing—"

"I shall be the one to decide that, Xavier," the Devil's Gateguard replied in a curt, authoritative voice. Clearly, this man did not tolerate any time-wasting nonsense. "You may go now, no need to escort me in. I daresay I can work a doorknob as well as any other man can."

"Of-of course, monsieur," Xavier stuttered, having lost his footing. Anything you ask, anything to make your visit easier. If I may be so bold, have you paid yet?"

"Yes," the man said with a nearly-invisible hint of impatience.

"Enjoy her, monsieur," Xavier replied, having regained his suaveness. His departing footsteps echoed down the hallway.

There was complete silence for about half a minute, in which Christine grew more and more tense. It was too much to hope that the man had changed his mind and gone away—no man with half a brain would be able to resist having sexual intercourse with a helpless, enslaved aristocrat. Perhaps he meant to spook her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Christine placed her trembling hands on her lap and waited.

She was so tense that she jumped slightly when the door opened and the man entered. Keeping her eyes down on the floor as was expected, she realized faintly that he entered like a gentleman, quietly stepping inside her cell and shutting the door almost without a sound.

Several seconds passed and the man did not move. Christine knew from the way her skin was tingling that he was looking at her. The silence stretched on and on until the air around her was suddenly snapping and sparking with tension. Then, he started walking toward her. Unable to stand it anymore, she looked up into his eyes.

Swathed in dark clothes, mask and all, the man approached Christine with a quick, long stride, and she braced herself for the familiar onslaught of rough seduction and always, the pain. Throttled screams of physical agony and self-pity, crescent moons and red streaks from untrimmed nails that used her body as a means of domination, even small knife wounds from the cruelest ones. She had seen them all before, and yet she could never quite prepare herself for the next attack by a Devil's Gateguard.

And when they assaulted her in groups…

The masked man didn't give Christine time to complete the thought. More swiftly than she thought a human could move, he closed the remaining distance between them and put a hand over her mouth in a firm hold. She started, the breath she drew in for a scream stopped by his fingers as her feet instinctively turned to run, but the hand on her mouth tightened warningly as his other hand grasped her shoulder in a deathgrip. Then he spoke in a low voice that sent little tickling shivers that ran down Christine's spine to pool around her toes.

"Do not scream. Do not gasp. Do not flood my ears with statements or questions. Do not make a sound."

Then, with the hand that gripped her shoulder, the stranger reached up and removed his mask.

Christine's eyes widened to their utmost extent as the air she drew in for a shattering cry of astonishment was stopped by the hand covering her mouth.

It was Erik. The mottled and disfigured side of his face could not lie. Blood, muscle and beating heart, he existed, breathed, and lived. He wasn't just a delusion her slipping mind had grasped at during her imprisonment to keep her sane. Nobody's eyes but his could radiate such compassion, concern, and relief all at once in that place. Through her utter shock, Christine felt her heart, pulled so taut from the constant agony she had been forced to constantly bear, finally caving in from relief at his presence.

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, until bit by infinitesimal bit, Christine's heart slowed in its pounding. Then, slowly, Erik removed his hand from her mouth.

"Is it…" Christine's hand reached up automatically to touch the bottom part of the scarred region on Erik's face. He flinched slightly at the contact, but did not move away. "Is it you? Really you?"

He gazed at her wordlessly, and Christine was struck full in the face by the veiled swirl of emotions behind his darkened eyes. "What is it?" she asked.

Erik didn't reply. Instead, he touched her face gently, his hands grazing over her collarbone and over her shoulders. She stood still under his scrutiny and waited.

His eyes darted from her shoulders back up to her face. "You're so thin," he said in an agonized whisper.

Christine's lips rolled inward. "I always have been, you know that."

"You've never been this thin. Don't lie to yourself," Erik said, a tiny hint of a growl behind his words. Upon hearing it, Christine dropped her eyes.

"It's this place," Erik continued, "What they did to you, what they're still doing to y—"

Erik's sentence was cut off by a sharp gasp as he pulled the neckline of Christine's shift aside to reveal faded marks on her shoulder that were unmistakably made by a pair of teeth. He stared at the spot with a naked shock and anger that sent a tremble to Christine's core

"They treated you worse than an animal," he said, too stunned to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper. "You've been starved, violated innumerable times in all sorts of ways…" His fingertips flitted over her bare arms, discovering numerous other scars she had received during her imprisonment. He froze for a moment and closed his eyes, fighting with his emotions. When they opened, he stared at her with a despair so great that she felt an echo of it in her chest. "If I embraced you right now," he whispered. "would you break into a thousand pieces?"

A strange warmth flowed into Christine, the warmest in weeks as new breath soared into her lungs. "I don't know," she breathed. "There's always the possibility that I will…but I think…I am stronger than I look."

"You are…you are," Erik said, wrapping his arms around her tightly. Christine's hands wrapped around Erik's form and they stood there, locked together by pure emotion.

"Christine…" Erik said in a voice so quiet that Christine almost didn't catch the broken agony behind it. He laid a chaste kiss on her hair as his arms tightened just a bit. "I don't believe in God. But when I first heard about you being enslaved in a brothel, I prayed. Nonstop, for hours. I'd never prayed so hard in my life before nor since. You weren't built to survive such rough treatment, and I was terrified that I would find you wasting away from disease or something similar—" his voice cut off as he suddenly drew away, his grip tightening on her. "Have you noticed anything different about your body? Any diseases?"

"No," Christine replied.

"Did they ever drug you?"

"Only with chloroform when they took me here."

"Pregnant?" the single word was spoken curtly.

"I don't think so."

Erik nodded, relaxing a fraction. "Come on. We have to get out of here."

"What?" Christine asked, her brow furrowed. "Now?"

Erik gave her a dark look. "Do you want to spend a second more in this terrible place?"

"Well…no," she admitted as Erik crept to the door and pressed his ear to it to listen for activity in the corridor.

"It has to be tonight," he said, ear still pressed to the door. "There will be less men awake to catch us compared to in the daytime. And because they think I'm a patron, they'll get suspicious if I remain in the morning. No man can stay in a brothel for so many hours. He'll either run out of stamina…or money." He turned his back to the door and walked back to her. "You have to get dressed. Do you have only the shift?"

Christine's lips pressed together. "Well…yes. I had a dress, a black one, but I don't know what they did with it."

He nodded. "All right. I suppose we'll have to make do, then," he replied. His hands rubbed her forearms gently, the heat of them penetrating through Christine's chilled skin. Shivers ran through her body anew as his touch awakened erotic memories of the distant past. Her skin tingled as he trailed his fingers along her left shoulder and down her arm, lingering over the long scar that lay there like a sleeping memory.

"How did you get this?" he asked.

She exhaled audibly through her nose. "From Xavier."

A quiet, brief snarl of outrage escaped from behind Erik's teeth.

"Sick," he muttered furiously.

She shrugged faintly. "He did it in retaliation for my marks."

His brow furrowed slightly. "Marks?"

She nodded, leading him to the north wall where the neat scratches glowed softly in rows. "I was counting the number of days until I got rescued, or until…something else…happened. To be honest, I was hoping that you would be the one to rescue me, but I didn't know if you were even alive after that night—"

Erik cradled her face, breathless, before kissing her gently on the mouth. He drew away from her, shaking his head slightly in wonder.

"I thought you hated me after that night in the Opera Populaire. To know that you did not, and was hoping that I would come one day…" he gazed at her, seemingly lost for words. "That's more than I had ever hoped for, ever since I saw you for the first time."

"Don't be like that," Christine said gently.

Erik looked down at her. "You're looking at the face, the man, that nobody has ever loved. In my travels, I have seen the world. But the world has never seen me." He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "Except you."

Her fingers surrounded his, still lingering on her cheek.

"Erik…" she whispered.

Just before their lips met, Erik gently pushed her back.

"This can come later. We have to leave now."

"In case we get caught and something happens to us," she said, half begging.

A spark of warmth flashed in Erik's eyes. "Very well," he said, smiling just a tiny bit as he closed the final distance between them.

* * *

They crept out of her cell as silently as two leaves gliding on a breeze. Every few seconds, Christine looked up at Erik, masked again, unable to believe that all those months he had not died at all. His hand held hers tightly as they crept down the dim hallway punctured by sputtering gas lamps, She was glad for the comforting gesture. Having been deprived of love for almost all his life, Erik knew the infinite power of a single act, felt a hundredfold displays of love that so many people take for granted after having performed them for years. She knew he did not use them lightly. And now, he was giving her comfort just when she needed it most.

She knew they had been seen the moment they stepped into the light. Angry shouts and cries of "Catch them!" erupted around them like a ring of fire as furious, heavy footsteps sounding from the distance approached nearer and nearer.

"Run!" Erik urged her as he broke into a sprint. Christine did her best, but in her weakened state she would be caught in a matter of seconds. Realizing this, Erik bent down and swept her up in his arms, hearing a gasp of surprise from her as he continued pelting towards the entrance.

Her weight hardly seemed to impede him. He hardly slowed as he kicked the front door open and ran out onto the hard-packed ground. Christine looked up past the arch of Erik's chin to the star-studded sky, dazzling pinpoints of light nestled in an endless ocean of deep blue velvet. Hardly had she taken the time to register this when Erik gave a great jump, landing on something warm and fluid—his horse.

"Hold on to me," he said swiftly, caressing her cheek for an instant as he settled her right behind him. He urged Nochescura into an all-out gallop as the pursuing shouts poured out into the air, becoming muted as the overwhelming openness of the night swallowed them and the rapidly-departing horse left them behind.


	7. The Beginning

**Author's blurb: This next chapter contains strong sexual situations...proceed as you wish, or not at all.**

Chapter Seven: The Beginning

_Christine was struggling for life. Unable to breathe, she let out an inaudible scream that floated upward in bubbles. Trying to grasp at something solid, she succeeded in grabbing only dark, suffocating water as leering creatures snarled silently at her, swiping at her flailing limbs. Around her and below her, sirens and monsters pointed and mocked. _

_Her eyes widened as she looked up. Above her lay the light, the hope. But even as she reached her arms up to embrace it, a cold, scaly hand closed on her ankle and started dragging her downwards. Her tears dissolved into the water as she started passing out. Her eyes closed as she was pulled ever deeper into the terrifying blackness, her arms still reaching upwards for the fading light. She was never going to escape the darkness…_

She awoke.

The light was dim and she feared a return of the dark waters, but turning her head, she found the source—a gas lamp shielded from the open air with a red glass globe that suffused the room with a hushed light. She was in a bed, the thick covers drawn up, the mattress soft. On the night table, a vase held a single red rose, lush in the glory of its full bloom.

She sensed that someone was next to her in the large bed and turned her head the other way. Erik emerged from the shadows, facing her and unmasked, his sleeping form lingering on the edge of the darkness.

Christine inhaled softly, taken over by complete wonder as she took in the sight of him. Never before had she seen Erik sleeping, his body and mind completely at rest, every last one of his defenses lowered. He was so vulnerable in sleep, yet breathtakingly beautiful. Every muscle in his face was relaxed, making him look peaceful. The network of jagged scars that covered the right side of his face tugged at Christine's heart, reminding her just how very human he was, what pain he had suffered his entire life. Breathless, she leaned over to caress his face. Just before her hand made contact, his eyes opened.

The twin green fires pierced her through and she almost cried out in surprise as his hand whipped out from under the covers to catch her extended one. She swallowed the sound as he placed her hand on his cheek, then drew it to his lips, kissing every fingertip. A flush spread through her as a tiny flame of desire flared into life deep within her.

"Where are we?" she whispered.

"Near Cherbourg," he replied quietly. "You fell asleep halfway there." He paused. "Are you all right?"

Christine knew he meant more than just her physical well-being. "I will be…" she replied. "…I hope," she added in an undertone.

"Christine…" Erik said in an emotional voice strongly reminiscent of the time he had called himself a loathsome gargoyle. "Oh, Christine. Why did it have to be Raoul's own father?"

She curled up in a ball instinctively, a motion that did not escape Erik's notice. "God alone knows," she replied in a choked voice. "God alone knows why all those…"

She started to cry. Erik wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed into his shirt, finally letting go of all the grief, the trauma, the overwhelming agony she had kept inside for weeks. Inside the refuge Erik offered, she felt a tangible unlatching of everything malevolent and shameful within her.

"In having the courage to show grief, one can let go of it…and let the healing process begin," he said softly, threading his fingers through her hair.

She drew away slightly. "I don't know if it's possible for me to ever heal from what I experienced back there," she said in a shaky voice, pressing the back of her hand to her nose.

"It's possible," he replied earnestly. Taking her head in his hands, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Christine…I will teach you how to trust again, how to love again."

"You sound very sure."

"I am." He smiled swiftly and caressed her cheek, but Christine pushed him back gently.

"My turn, she said, a fleeting ghost of a smile appearing on her face. "Otherwise, how can I heal if you're the one doing everything?"

He held his breath and held still then, a waiting statue with a beating heart. She leaned forward, but hesitated, her face serious again and her sweet lips tantalizingly close to his. Erik could feel her breath, uneven and staccatoed, as she spoke in a vulnerable whisper.

"I'm scared."

His hand slid around to glide over her back and she closed her eyes for an instant, a minute shiver rippling through her. "Do not be frightened of the darkness. It speaks of things we do not dare address otherwise—lust, fantasies, death, and despair. It can be cruel, it can be agonizing, but it can also be your friend." He laid a hand on her neck, making sure she was listening. "Darkness in itself is not evil nor shameful. Darkness is just secret, and it can be beautiful. The purest heart is not truly whole without some darkness. All the great geniuses in history were insane, were they not?"

Another ghost of a smile flashed across her face as she closed the final distance, sealing her lips to his. They drew in tandem breaths as the kiss continued, and never was there a kiss more beautifully passionate that spoke of final homecomings, haunting dreams and the silent murmur of velvet desire.

When the desire threatened to engulf them both and never look back, she laid a hand on his chest, gently but firmly pushing them apart.

"Erik," she whispered, her voice quaking in fear and something that could be labeled as shame. "In that brothel I've submitted to so many men—so many!" She spoke the last two words with a biting fierceness and fell silent for a moment, unable to meet his eyes. She drew in a deep breath and raised her desperate, pleading eyes to meet his. "How can you ever forgive me for that? In that dark place, I did the act with more men than I could count. I learned so many secrets, so many dark wishes…I could have refused to do it, but I did it—_I did it!_" She shook her head a little, a tear sliding quietly down her face from her tortured, dark eyes. "Why did you even bother? You should have just left me there."

Erik kissed the tear away and gently pressed Christine's head to his shoulder. "Christine, you did it because there was no other way you could have survived. Had you proven to be incurably rebellious, they would have injured you terribly, or even killed you." His hands clenched for a fraction of a second at the thought. "In hellish situations, you may have to submit to the darkness in order to survive. Like—"

His throat cut off and his face closed. Her body tensed slightly as she realized what he was almost going to say. She drew away and sat kneeling before him, her head bowed. "I'm so, so sorry," she whispered.

"No," he replied firmly. He slid his fingers under her chin and raised her head to meet his. "I don't accept your apology. I never said it was your fault, nor will you ever hear me say it." His voice dropped to an almost-silent whisper. "Because it wasn't. You had no idea that this would happen, and you did the only thing you could."

His voice reoriented Christine so that instead of looking down into the infinite abyss of delusion, she found herself gazing into the canyon of crystal reality. When he was the Angel of Music and she his earthbound student, anything he said she readily believed. Now the illusion was shattered, but his compelling voice had never lost its power. As her mind registered his words, all her pain and doubts bade her goodbye and faded away into eternity, leaving only truth behind.

She opened her eyes to a new dawn.

"I believe you," she said softly.

He lovingly swept a lock of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear, his eyes twinkling gently. "As I knew you would."

Christine acted on instinct. Before he could fully withdraw his hand, she caught it with surprising dexterity. Her eyes were intense as she held on to his wrist firmly.

"You saved me in more ways than you could ever imagine or understand," she said. "I want to thank you."

The corners of Erik's mouth twitched upwards. "You don't—"

The rest of his sentence was muffled by Christine's lips sealing over his. Knocked off guard by the sudden wave of passion rising in him, he didn't realize what she was doing with her hands until he felt her fingertips slide over his chest.

Realization slammed into his mind and he caught hold of her hand. It was Christine's turn to be surprised as he swiftly gripped her chin with her free hand.

"Christine." His voice was no more than a whisper. "Are you sure?"

She laid her fingertips lightly over his lips. "Yes. More than sure.

"And Raoul?"

"I honor him. I remember him. But I will not languish like a drowning flower. He would want me to be happy, in all possible ways."

Erik's resistance tumbled down to ashes as his hands fell. Taking her time, Christine unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands inside, very slowly letting them glide over his chest and down his torso.

A mighty shiver thundered through him as strange nerve endings he never knew of exploded into life. He closed his eyes against the beautiful agony, and opened them at the sensation of air brushing across his newly bared skin.

Christine's lips parted slightly as she ran her palms down the heated flesh of his arms. Her hands came together to undo the buttons of her nightgown, but he laid his hands over hers.

"No," he said as calmly as he could. He was trembling, and fought to keep it under control. "Let me."

Her breathing quickened as her hands slid out from under his. His own breathing also sped up as, unable to help himself, he ran his index finger down the center of her chest, feeling every contour of the seductive valley made by her breasts.

An almost inaudible sound escaped Christine's throat at the simple caress. Erik turned his attention to Christine's buttons, undoing them slowly. Each millimeter of visible skin was a miracle to him that severely tested his control.

Her skin was flushed with heat as he slid her nightgown over her head.

"I need you with me."

The helpless whisper slipped past Christine's lips and heated Erik's blood. He swiftly leaned forward and kissed her, running a fingertip down the outside curve of her breast.

"My love," he murmured, clutching her beautifully slender body to him. She inhaled sharply as his tongue slide in between her soft lips to waltz with his own. Warm desire exploded within her, urgent and unstoppable as she ran her hands up his naked back, hugging him so hard she was afraid he would suffocate.

They both let out shuddering gasps as they resurfaced.

"Erik…" the word came out as a soft moan.

His body ached at her voice. "In time, my Angel," he replied, trailing his fingertips down her throat to enclose her left breast in his hand.

She closed her eyes in pleasure at his warm hands and started slightly at the tip of his tongue tracing her lips back and forth before sliding into the depths of her mouth again. She leaned back, taking Erik with her. Neither of them could stop moans of need from escaping their throats as they kissed, a slow-burning fire that nevertheless consumed everything it could.

The brown in Christine's eyes was almost pained as they looked into his. "Erik…_please_…"

He caved in, for both their sakes. Her nipples called to him, sensual in their swollen arousal, and he bent his head to her breast as his fingers teased the other rosy bud. Christine let out a genuine whimper as her core tensed and coiled, causing silky liquid to gush out from her in pulses.

He made love to her without truly doing it. His tongue bathed her breast, circled her aching nipple, flicked it as he gloried in her helpless reactions of pure pleaure. Releasing her, he laid kisses in a line down her stomach, inching down the length of her body agonizingly slowly. Keeping her legs closed, he buried his face into her mound, plunging his tongue into her depths and just managing to flick her clitoris.

She let out a loud gasp and her legs sprang open in a knee-jerk response, exposing her body completely to his eyes. He had to stop and take in the intimately beautiful sight. Her labia was swollen, slick for pure want of him. He slid his tongue deep inside her, feeling another cascade of desire leave her womb.

He could feel it coming, just dying to explode and make itself known to the world. Dragging his tongue up her damp, delicious channels, he teased the base of her clitoris, whipped his tongue around it once, twice…then grabbed the whole thing in his mouth and pulled. Hard.

He thrust two of his fingers into her burning sheath as she screamed out her orgasm, her muscles tightening in a death grip around him as she quivered and thrashed. She cried out his name over and over again until they were muffled by his lips. His fingers worked her as she continued twitching and spasming in slowly calming degrees. Her whimpers and sighs painted images of other things—dark things, beautiful things—in his mind, but he dutifully took those images and put them away for another time, refusing to release her until her body was completely still.

Her eyes were closed and she kept them closed as she brought his head down to hers, kissing his neck. He let out a soft sound of pleasure that turned into a louder one as her hand found his swollen manhood and laced her fingers around it, pulling up slowly.

He groaned, thrusting his hips into her hand once, but then jerking it back out. "Don't make me beg," he pleaded in a throaty voice, tremors wracking him.

Her eyes opened at the beautiful tormeny that was his voice as a hard, insistent wave of desire coursed through her. She ached to have him—just him, only him, all of him—inside her.

"Let me put you out of your misery," she whispered. At this point, her voice was almost gone.

"Are you sure?" Erik repeated, looking straight into Christine's eyes.

Christine gazed back steadily under a haze of heightened desire. But through the fog, she was sure. She had been sure from a long time ago.

She nodded and her hand closed around him again, but she couldn't find the strength to continue.

"Then do it, Christine," Erik urged though a throat almost closed up with desire. "For the first and forever time."

He shifted closer to her so that the tip of him dipped deep into her channels, resting heavily against the base of her clitoris. Muscles unlocking at his voice, she guided him downwards to rest against her soft opening.

He looked at her, asking one last time, and she nodded.

They both let out gasps and cries as he thrust deep inside of her in a single stroke. Hips caressing each other, Erik stopped, willing the threat of an early climax to subside. Christine drew a shuddery breath and ran her hands down his face, tears stabbing her eyes.

Moved, he kissed her deeply, flipping their bodies over so she was straddling him,

"Christine…" he whispered, his hands gliding over her beautiful breasts. "My now and forever." His member throbbed in agreement, buried deep inside her.

"Erik…" she murmured breathily in response. "My savior."

And she began to move.

Each cycle and stroke was a delusion and a dream, but one that lingered in their minds forever afterwards in the years to come. The mysterious red lamp case sensual shadows on the patterned walls, of two beings performing the very dance of life, of seduction and love. The walls bore witnesses to their gasps and moans, too passionate to remain confined to the heart. Fire flamed and sweat flowed freely as Erik and Christine helplessly went faster and faster, swept away by their mutual desire for an end, but also a beginning.

There was a moment of absolute silence. Then Erik and Christine cried out loudly as their orgasms broke. Even as her strength drained away from the intense climax, Christine continued, needing all the pleasure she could possibly get. She gritted her teeth, tears spilling down her cheeks as a wave of desire exploded though her body, so strong that it bordered on something like pain. She choked out several sobs as she stilled and collapsed on top of Erik, shaking violently.

They lay together, unashamed in their tears of passion and ecstasy. United as one in their pain, their grief, their love and in the solace they found in one another. Tears streamed from Erik's eyes at reality, truly beautiful for the first time, and he didn't bother to wipe them away.

Each second was only a second and yet seemed to last for an eternity. Paradise could not compare with being in the other's company. They held each other, still locked together by flesh. Time and reality drifted away and came back in turns as they lay there under the tangled bedsheets.

Giving a little sigh of contentment, Christine laid a kiss on Erik's lips. Without meaning to, he held it long enough that Desire blinked its eyes open from its nap and stretched lazily.

She ran her fingers down Erik's scarred face. "Thank you."

Erik shook his head. "No. Thank _you_—for everything."

Kissing her deeply, he leaned over and turned off the red-shaded lamp, inviting the night to take back what would always be hers.


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Scar tissue_, Christine thought. It fades and yet never goes away, even after it disappears from plain sight. Her time at the brothel haunted her and still haunted her, giving her nightmares that ended explosively, bringing her back to reality crying out in agony and covered in sweat.

She had once thought that time was cruel. Imprisoned by men, she had lacked the macabre will to end her life and so was forced to endure endless days and nights of anguish, abuse and terror. Each day had stretched on forever and at night, the line of patrons only seemed to increase. Each hour of her helpless containment had filled her with horror, self-pity and despair. Unable to end it all, she had become a slave of time in its horrid existence, an existence that meant wicked men and brutal injuries and nightly tears. How quickly her viewpoint would change once she was saved…

She didn't know how she could have survived the first few months without Erik. Each night, he slept next to her in the same bed, his warmth penetrating through the coldness of her delicate body and soothing the wounds of her heart. No matter how deeply he was sleeping, he was always ready to soothe her from her nightmares when they awakened her, rocking her gently like a parent would a baby. Oftentimes she cried, unable to help herself, but whatever feminine terror or sorrow she threw at him nightly, he never complained. He knew very well what it was like to be traumatized, to be used. In the darkness, he sang to her.

Yet, like he had told her, nothing lasted forever. The nightmares were growing more infrequent, the deep hours of night being replaced by murmured adorations, gentle kisses and occasionally, lovemaking.

He adored and worshipped her without shame, partly to make up for the period when she was forced to worship men without being returned the favor. Each day and especially each night, Christine found comfort, love and various levels of sensuality in Erik's arms. And she started healing…letting go.

One warm night in early July found the two of them emitting soft moans, the drawn-out, low-pitched sounds that came from a slow consummation of two loves. Peaks came quickly for them and their tremors turned to gentle sighs of affection as they kissed each other deeply. Christine rolled off Erik's body and propped her head up on her elbow, facing him. An air of unusually solemn quiet settled over her eyes.

Erik took hold of the lock of her hair falling across her face and tucked it behind her ear. "Christine. What's wrong?"

Dark brown eyes met green ones. "I was lucky enough to be rescued from the brothel. I learned to hope again, to live again, to love without fear of pain. What about the other girls there? The ones that never wanted to be there? You've seen how they live in there. Fate has been cruel to them. I was the lucky one. No angels will come to rescue them. Angels will come for them only in death, Erik…" She broke off and sniffed once, pressing the back of her hand to her nose. "It seems unfair that only I could escape while they were forced to stay. I want to help them somehow, to free them, but that'll be impossible." Her voice broke.

He reached over and drew her body close to his, gently nudging her elbow out from under her so she was lying nestled on top of his chest. "It's not impossible, love. Under a pseudonym, I have contacts with the French police. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps we can organize a break-in at the brothel." His thumb traced over her full lower lip, his mind already at work. "If successful, all the women will be freed, the managers arrested. And I wouldn't mind to throw the Comte de Chagny in with them, either," he added, a glint sparkling dangerously in his eye.

"If successful," Christine replied with a quiet desperation. "But what about the other brothels? The drug rings? The entire Devil's Gateguards? We can't hope to eradicate all evil in the world."

Erik cradled her face with one hand, his fingertips caressing the sensitive skin under her ear. "Alone, we cannot truly hope to. As a collective group through the realm of time, we can. Alone, we may or may not be successful. Many times, we aren't. But it's the knowledge that something better exists, the hope that it can become a reality, that makes us try and try again."

Christine snuggled deeper into his arms. "That's very comforting," she murmured.

"Mmm," he replied, laying a kiss on her dark hair. "Ah, _mon chere_, excuse me—" he leaned over to his bedside table, snatching an unread newspaper off the surface and turning up the gas lamp.

"Erik!" Christine stretched luxuriously, half a giggle escaping her lips. "What has possessed you to read a day-old newspaper in the middle of the night?"

"Can't I enjoy a decent newspaper with the love of my life?" he countered, the most beautiful half-smile lighting up the marred side of his face.

She smiled as he opened the newspaper with a soft rustle and leafed through it slowly, nudging it in Christine's direction so she could also read.

"Look at this," she said excitedly, pointing to one of the articles. "It says that thirteen million francs' worth of diamonds have been returned to Swarovski's possession." Christine looked at Erik. "They were stolen?"

He ran a hand through her silky hair. "Yes. It was mentioned in an earlier article some weeks ago."

"Well," Christine said, leaning into Erik's warm chest, "I'm glad that those diamonds were returned. Now everything is as it should be, in their proper place."

Erik gazed at her, allowing his fingertips to glide along her cheek. "Yes," he said quietly. "Everything is perfect now."

Christine melted as she realized that Erik was not referring to the diamond incident. She laid a hand over Erik's, still lingering on her cheek. "Kiss me, Erik. Tell me you love me."

Erik smiled and bent his head down to obey her command, and the newspaper slid off the bedsheets and hit the floor with a hushed thud as they each invited the other to dance into eternity.

THE END

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**I hope you liked this story, please rate and review! Thanks a ton! :)**


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